Three
by DreamingToBePetra
Summary: I was looking at the expression on Michael's face when Lincoln first sees him in the chapel. It begged too many questions.


Michael

Sitting in the chapel my stomach rolled and I tried to push down the bile that was forming. This was it. This was why I was here. I found Lincoln up in the front row and I wondered what he was thinking. I never told him anything about my plan, and he still doesn't know why I haven't been at visitation all week.

I wonder if he's cursing me, thinking I abandoned him, more likely though he's happy because he think's he's finally run me off.

And then chapel's over and I move to the end of the aisle waiting for him to see me. I want to badly for him to smile, to see something other than the horror in his face, but I know that even if I'm offering his greatest dream, even if I'm his only hope, he's not going to see it that way.

He's walking toward me now and I can feel his confusion. But I'm also comforted by his response, I half expected him to kill me on sight, but that question, the immediate conclusion that I had a reason, meant more than I could ever say. We don't have a lot of time, so I answer him straight out.

"I'm getting you out of here."

"That's impossible."

His response is almost monotone and I wonder again what it takes to leech the life out of someone so dynamic...

So I put my most confident face on, realizing that in here, for awhile at least, he was going to need me to believe for him.

"Not if you designed the place it isn't."

As I walk away, I hope that I can be as good as my word. And I know that all of this will be worth it, if only my brother can hope as well.

Lincoln

The chaplain talks a lot about Jesus dying. I'm not sure if he does that specifically for me, or if it's just something he says for everybody, but it always seems like he's talking to me, trying to tell me something important. Of course, Jesus was innocent of all sin, and I'm just dying for the one thing I didn't do. It's an odd thought, one I try to stay away from because it's more than a little arrogant and I don't have the inclination to wonder what I'm being martyred for.  
The service ends and I drag myself up to make my way back to my cell. Its strange how the monotony of all this becomes both commonplace and stifling. There wasn't much running through my head out of the ordinary when I looked up and saw Michael. I think my heart stopped a little from the shock and then I saw his face.

I wanted to start yelling. My first thought was to beat the shit out of him. It wouldn't be the first time, and it was the only thing I could think of when my stomach dropped to my shoes. It was his face that stopped me.

That eager look in his eyes I'd seen so many times. And somehow I knew this was just like the time I came home and he'd taken our ancient T.V. apart. I was mad that time too, but his face stopped me from really losing it. He had needed me to believe that he could. He needed to know that I believe in him now too.

I asked him why and I'm still in a state of shock over his answer. Panicked that he did this to himself, panicked that he's in GenPop where I can't help him, and most of all panicked that he might be able to pull this off. Panicked most of all that there might be something to hope for.

I haven't seen him since and I still don't know what he's planning, but I'm still locked in a battle of rage and hope, still staring at him in his prison blues. That the look was the one he always had when he needed something to believe in as much as he needed me to believe in him. I don't know why I was the one he looked at that way, never could fathom why he wanted my approval, but I know deep inside, despite being afraid to hope, that he deserves my belief.

After all, when he put the T.V. back together somehow it worked like new.

LJ

I resented having to be in the prison. Resented that people wouldn't let me forget this man who I didn't want to remember. Gone forever. Those were his words. And even though I'm trying so hard not to here the pain under his joke, I still hear my father. I don't want to hear him. I don't want to look at this man in a jumpsuit and equate him with the guy who taught me how to ride a bike and made me pancakes and told me he loved me all the time.

The only way to keep them separate is to refuse to see him, refuse to hear him. So I listen to him with half an ear while I dredge up ever nasty thing anybody has said to me about him over the last three years. I remember every time I went to call him to get away from Adrian only to realize that he was in prison. And then he's done talking, I made a flip comment about homework and started to walk away.

But he stopped me, confronted me with the one thing I didn't want to know. And all I could think was how desperately I didn't want it to be true, how much I hated him for what he'd done and how much I wanted for all this to be over so I could forget him. And because I knew it was going to hurt until he was gone, I decided to hurt him.

On the way home, I sat slumped against the window trying to block out the look on his face. Trying to forget the hug I wanted but couldn't have. Tried to forget the tears that ran down my face. He wasn't my father. I don't have a father. I refuse to feel pain and that's the only thing he is anymore. But I can still remember what it felt to be hoisted onto his shoulders, to feel safe and protected in his arms, and even though I don't have a father, I remember and I wonder and then I wish I could forget.

The car stops in our driveway and I want desperately to get away from Adrian with his dirty looks and my mom with her sad eyes. I dialed Uncle Mike's number without thinking. I just wanted out. But then I heard the recording.

"The number you have reached has been disconnected. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please hang up and try again." 

It takes me a moment to register everything, but that's when I know, forgetting or remembering there's only pain and anger, and nothing is worth this pain. So I drag myself up to make my way back to my room. Its funny all of this has become so normal, but really all I want to do is go to sleep.

Three

_Michael sits in his cell conjuring up images of the future. This is what I'm fighting for, he thinks to himself. He pictures Lincoln and LJ grilling steaks and arguing about colleges, he focuses on a bright sun and a cool breeze and then sends himself walking through the picture carrying a couple of beers and a soda, suggesting Loyola. This is why I'm here._

Lincoln tilts his face into the light and traced his fingers along the concrete imagining the contours of his son's face; thinking about holding LJ tight, tears slipping down his face as he wonders if it will ever happen, wonders if he will be preparing to die or celebrating freedom if it does. Then his mind shifts, trying to picture Michael in a small cell. And he hopes for something he can barely consider. He hopes for freedom.

LJ falls flat on his bed, not bothering to undress or pull back the covers. With his head buried in the pillow he counts considers the homework he hasn't done and the laundry that needs to go downstairs. He runs the list of movies playing at the Cineplex wondering if he can sneak out to see one. He wonders what the chances are that he'll get his license this summer. And just as he starts to fade into sleep, his hand slips under the pillow and clutches at the small photo of his father.


End file.
